


Prince of Memory

by VelkynKarma



Category: Voltron: Legendary Defender
Genre: Blood, Deliberately bittersweet, Explicit Language, Gen, Graphic Injury, Major Illness, OC Character Death, PTSD, Shiro (Voltron)-centric, Violence
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-07-22
Updated: 2017-07-22
Packaged: 2018-12-05 13:23:45
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 4
Words: 20,169
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/11578944
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/VelkynKarma/pseuds/VelkynKarma
Summary: Shiro escaped the gladiator arenas. Hundreds of others didn't; hundreds of others perished. But Shiro's memories contain more than just patrol routes and battle techniques—and there may yet be a way to bring at least a few of those lost prisoners home, even after death.





	1. A message

**Author's Note:**

> I'm back guys! This is a fic I'd wanted to post during PlatonicVLDWeek 2.0, but I just didn't have the time to get it out. Now I do! And since I've got such a tight posting schedule for the big bangs coming up, you lucky ducks get this story all at once. That's right! I'll be posting all 4 chapters _today!_
> 
>  **Please be warned** that although none of the main cast die in this, quite a few OC's have some unfortunate on-screen deaths. If death scenes make you uncomfortable, please do yourself a favor and don't read. This is an intentionally pretty bittersweet fic.
> 
> Inspired by a number of things, including some interesting meta posts on tumblr, Ulaz's cryptic statement to Shiro during his rescue, Shiro's insistence on what happens "If I don't make it out of here," and a quest in WoW of all things, as well as just wondering what else could be buried in Shiro's memory.
> 
> Enjoy!

They’re in the middle of training when the memory hits.  
  
It’s not unexpected for training to trigger memories for Shiro these days. He’ll be in the middle of combat with the gladiator or sparring with one of the other paladins and then _bam_ , suddenly he’s in the arena fighting for his life, or facing down a group of charging enemies from his past.  
  
What makes this one different is that it doesn’t come like the others at all. Shiro’s not even fighting when it happens. He’s sitting against the wall on the training deck, idly supervising while Keith and Lance take a turn at sparring. Keith’s hand-to-hand skill far exceeds Lance’s, but Shiro can tell he’s trying to go easier on Lance for the sake of teaching. Even so, Lance makes a bad move and Keith ends up sweeping his legs out from under him, knocking him on his back. Lance hits the ground with a yelp of pain, and winces as he clutches his bruised side, and _the prisoner thuds to the ground with a cry of pain, sprawling on his back. The sentries back out of the communal prison cell immediately. The door seals shut behind them, leaving the rest of the prisoners in a mostly dim room with only a few weak purple lights overhead to see by._  
  
_The smell that comes with the prisoner is almost overwhelming, and Shiro wrinkles his nose immediately. It’s not the iron scent of blood—it smells more like the stench of burnt plastic—but Shiro has a feeling it means about the same thing for whatever race this guy is. He’s thin and tall, with two sets of almost skeletal hands and an odd face that looks like it’s been carved out of wood, and Shiro gets the overall impression of some sort of giant walking stick. But even if he looks a bit treelike, he’s definitely bleeding like an animal, to judge by the glimmering, sticky liquid coating the alien’s chest and pooling on the floor._  
  
_Shiro frowns. An arena survivor—but a survivor in the loosest sense of the term. He’d made it through the match, but he doesn’t look very good. Shiro’s not an expert on this species’ anatomy, but he’s pretty sure anything leaking that much isn’t a good sign._  
  
_The prisoner cries out again in agony, and one of his hands clutches at a wound in what Shiro can only assume is his stomach. Two of the other arms drag uselessly, and the last juts in an awkward way, with some sort of protrusion that looks like bone halfway up his forearm. No, he doesn’t look well at all. Based on what Shiro’s seeing, it’s a miracle he survived his match._  
  
_Shiro glances around at the other prisoners as the wounded one sobs on the floor. He’s in one of the many communal prisons for the arena fodder, with at least a dozen other Galra slaves. None of them are familiar faces anymore, not from his first match—prisoners rotate through these places so frequency there’s never any consistency. But none of them look surprised by what’s happened. Most of them look away from the wounded prisoner as soon as he arrives, and refuse to pay any attention. They look uncomfortable and afraid. They’re broken down and beaten inside, too tired and sick and dead to the world to care what’s going on in the middle of the floor._  
  
_Shiro clenches his jaw in frustration, and rises from his seat against the wall._  
  
_At his movement, several of the other prisoners flinch. They curl up a little on themselves, shrinking further into defensive wary balls or adopting stances that might let them fight or flee. They look wary, and Shiro realizes not all of that fear is for the Galra. They’re scared of_ him _, too._  
  
Maybe I overdid it, _he thinks. He’d made himself out to be a bloodthirsty, ravenous berserker to take Matt’s place in the arena, but the other prisoners had seen him do it, and they didn’t know him or hear his message to Matt. They thought he was wild, dangerous—willing to rip apart a fellow human for a chance at blood. If he would do that to one of his own, no doubt he would rip apart other weak prisoners with his bare hands just for sport._  
  
_He doesn’t really have a way to reassure the rest of these prisoners, though. He’s already won three fights in the arena, each against difficult opponents, and at this point he’s solidified himself as Champion and proven he’s a competent fighter and a survivor. Only his actions will undo those things, not his words, but that won’t happen today._  
  
_But there are other actions he can take. He crosses the small communal cell and bangs angrily on the door. “Hey!_ Hey! _This guy’s gonna die in here if you don’t get him some kind of medical attention!”_  
  
_There’s no answer on the other side. Shiro peeks through the small window and sees several sentries outside, but they stand at attention with guns in hands, and don’t listen to him._  
  
_“Hey! This guy’s wounded! Any idiot can see that! He’s gonna die if you don’t do something!”_  
  
_They continue to ignore him, even when he bangs on the door for another solid minute, and gets increasingly louder and more frustrated._  
  
_This prisoner is a warning and a lesson, Shiro realizes, with a sick twist of horror. He’s an example of what happens if you don’t play the Galra’s game. You fight well, or you fuck up, and you die. The Galra don’t care, so you’d best behave. Get strong, or get dead—strength’s the only thing that will keep you alive._  
  
_Shiro glances around at the prisoners again. A few are watching him warily; a few others seem cautious but curious about his actions. But none of them act in any way to help. They seem resigned to the fact that the man is going to die bleeding out in the middle of the floor, sobbing and crying out in pain, and they’re too apathetic and hurting themselves to care. They’re too involved in their own very real suffering to notice that of another’s._  
  
_Shiro can’t blame them, exactly. He’s only been here for a couple weeks, maybe, and he can already feel the exhaustion and the emptiness in his soul trying to settle in. He catches himself wondering if he’ll survive this. If he can escape. He’s hungry more often than not and already he barely sleeps anymore._  
  
_But this…this is too much. This is too much to watch. He feels helpless, but he hates being unable to act. Maybe the rest of these prisoners can’t bring themselves to care anymore, but that’s not the case with him. And maybe the Galra won’t do something to help, but maybe he can._  
  
_He turns, and heads directly to the wounded slave in the middle of the floor._  
  
_The other prisoners, those not averting their eyes, tense uneasily. They’re probably afraid of what the reining Champion making a beeline for a wounded, helpless slave might mean. Maybe they’re expecting him to attack, or sate his bloodlust in some way._  
  
_Shiro does neither, of course. He’s not the monster he pretends to be in the arena. He crouches next to the writhing, sobbing slave, and says, “Hey…hey, it’s gonna be okay. I’m gonna try to help you, okay? Easy.”_  
  
_The prisoner whimpers, and jerks away from Shiro in fear the moment his red-rimmed carved eyes catch sight of who’s crouching next to him._  
  
_“Easy,” Shiro repeats. “Easy. I’m not going to hurt you. I want to to help, if I can. Okay?” He keeps his movements slow and gentle, like he’s approaching a wild animal in a trap, but it works. The prisoner whimpers again, but after a moment he nods just slightly._  
  
_“Stomach,” the slave whispers after a moment. “Knife…”_  
  
_Shiro nods and leans in. The prisoner is bleeding pretty badly, and the burnt plastic smell gets stronger. The blood has the appearance and consistency of sap, an odd golden-brown color, and it’s everywhere. Shiro eases one of the slave’s hands away from the worst wound as gently as he can to observe the damage._  
  
_He doesn’t have to be an expert in alien physiology to know this guy doesn’t have a snowball’s chance in hell. The wound cuts deep, so deep Shiro can see most of his foreign insides, and Shiro’s stomach lurches a little at the sight of it. He forces the nausea down, but he can’t rid himself of his feeling of helplessness. He’s not even sure medical attention would save this guy. It’s only a matter of time._  
  
_“Please…” the slave whimpers. “Please…help…”_  
  
_“I…” Shiro swallows, and can’t quite meet the slave’s eyes. Maybe the other prisoners had been right. Maybe this had been foolish. There’s nothing he can do for this prisoner, and all he feels is awful and helpless and worthless, and sharply reminded of just how close his own potential death is. Next fight this could be him. Either way, he can’t do anything. Maybe it would be easier to not care at all. There would still be physical pain, but at least his heart wouldn’t hurt as much._  
  
_But the prisoner whines in pain again, and shudders next to Shiro._  
  
_Shiro squeezes his eyes shut in frustration a moment later, furious at himself. How_ dare _he even consider it. He’s not a coward. He’s not running away from this. More importantly, this isn’t about him at all. This poor bastard is dying, probably because he was in the wrong place at the wrong time, through no fault of his own. He’s suffering, and he’s desperate. Were their positions reversed, Shiro would give anything for just a few kind words, and a chance to not die alone._  
  
_He breathes out once, exhales all of his nerves and frustrations and helplessness when he does, and fixes as confident and kind an expression as he can on his face. It’s the same one he used with the new cadets, frightened and homesick and not so sure about the Garrison just yet. And the same one he’d used with Keith, whenever the poor kid needed just a little support so he didn’t feel so alone._  
  
_“Don’t worry,” he says, turning back to the slave. “It’s not so bad. It’ll stop hurting in just a little bit. I promise.”_  
  
_The slave whimpers again, and his one working hand, the one that had been covering the wound, twitches impulsively. “I…I don’t…_ why, _” he gasps. There’s fear in his eyes, and confusion, and most of all pain. He doesn’t understand why this is happening to him._  
  
_Neither does Shiro, really. It’s a question he’s been asking himself since he got here._  
  
_“Don’t understand…” the slave rambles now, voice slurred and weak. “What did…I…do…wrong…?” He bucks a second later with a harsh cry of pain as something about his wound gets worse, and claws out wildly with one hand._  
  
_Impulsively, Shiro takes it. It’s natural human instinct, and a moment later he realizes it might not be as comforting to other species as his own. But the slave clutches at his fingers, making a low keening noise, and Shiro realizes the contact is welcome. And this, at least, is something he_ can _do. He rubs his thumb gently over the back of the creature’s strange, brittle hand, and says with as much kindness as he can manage, “You didn’t do anything wrong. Don’t worry. It will stop hurting soon.”_  
  
_He’s not sure if the prisoner takes his meaning. The alien seems to be drifting now, and his spasms are getting slower. “Hurts…” He whispers softly._  
  
_“I know. I’m sorry.” Shiro wishes he didn’t feel so useless._  
  
_“I…my wife…m-my child…” The alien whimpers, and this time Shiro knows it’s not from pain. “My…fami…ly…”_  
  
_Once again on impulse, Shiro asks suddenly, “What would you say to them, if they were here now?”_  
  
_The alien looks startled at the question. He gasps in pain, and makes another low keening noise, but when he’s relatively settled again he whispers, “Karika…wife…l-love so…so much…” Another low keen. “Kuris…ch-child…so cl..e…ver….so p-proud…of…so…h-happy…”_  
  
_There’s another agonized cry, but he seems desperate now to bite it back, to finish his thoughts. “Love…both…miss…both…always…never…forget…”_  
  
_Shiro is pained by the words. Even as the dying alien speaks about his loved ones, Shiro can’t help but turn his thoughts to Earth a million billion planets away, and think about his own. He wonders if he’ll ever see them again, too. He can empathize with this alien’s suffering on far too profound a level._  
  
_“I’m sure they love you, too,” Shiro says. It feels like a weak offering, but the slave seems to settle just slightly at the words. He squeezes the prisoner’s hand gently, mindful of the brittle fingers and his obvious pain, and adds, “I’m sure they won’t forget.”_  
  
_The alien sighs at that. Shiro can see the last of his strength leaving his body. “Hurts,” he whispers again, so softly Shiro can barely hear it._  
  
_“I know. I’m sorry.”_  
  
_It doesn’t take much longer after that for the prisoner’s suffering to finally end. Shiro can’t take away any of his pain, but he does stay with the wounded slave until the light finally leaves his eyes, doing what he can to ease the alien’s passing. It doesn’t feel like enough, but it’s all he can offer._  
  
_The sentries wordlessly collect the body a few hours later. Shiro is disgusted at the knowledge that the Galra had to have known the whole time. They’d known, and they’d done nothing, and Shiro had been helpless to do anything, either. More than ever, he feels hatred for this place, these cruel people._  
  
_But even days later, when the sap-like bloodstains are long since gone and the body is disposed of, Shiro can’t get the prisoner’s final words out of his head. It’s like they’ve carved themselves into his heart. He remembers them with eerie perfection—every word, every name, every stutter, every inflection._  
  
If I ever escape here, _he promises himself,_ If I ever get away from this hellhole, I’ll go back and warn Earth first. But after, when it’s all over…maybe I can find this guy’s planet, too. Maybe I can find his wife and kid. Maybe I can tell them what he said. Maybe…maybe it won’t all have been meaningless.  
  
_He can only hope. But maybe he can make a dying alien’s last words reach the people they’re really meant for. And maybe when he does, the words carved in his heart will grow less heavy._  
  
_“Shiro?”_  
  
Shiro starts at the voice. Nobody calls him Shiro in the prison. He’s Champion. Something’s not right.  
  
Except he’s not in the prison cells. He’s on the training deck of the Castle of Lions, and the paladins are circled around where he’s sitting anxiously.  
  
“Shiro?” the voice repeats, and he realizes Keith is calling him. The red paladin looks concerned, and the worried expression is mirrored on the others’ faces. “You okay? You look like you’ve seen a ghost…”  
  
Keith’s…not wrong, actually. Shiro swallows, but can’t quite bring himself to speak, not yet. A memory. It was another memory, but…but not one like he’s ever had before. This wasn’t about his escape, or anything useful for fighting, or any kind of news that will net them more allies in the war against the Galra Empire. It feels bitter, and painful, and deeply personal.  
  
But it’s important. And it’s something he has to act on all the same. He _has_ to.  
  
He promised. To himself if no one else.  
  
“Shiro?” Lance asks, alarmed, as Shiro abruptly drags himself to his feet. “You okay? Shiro?”  
  
“Was it another memory?” Pidge adds, looking worried. “Did you remember something important?”  
  
“Shiro, where are you _going?”_ Hunk asks, as Shiro makes a beeline for the door.  
  
“Need Coran and Allura,” Shiro says. “Now. Maybe they’ll know…”  
  
“Know _what?_ ” Lance calls after him.  
  
Shiro is almost disappointed when Coran can’t identify the alien species Shiro describes by name. “It’s no one I’ve ever met,” he admits. More distress than Shiro would have liked must have worked its way into his expression, because Coran holds up placating hands and adds, “Now now, don’t you fret, number one. I’ve been to a fair few planets in my day, but the universe is far larger than one man can see in a lifetime! But the Castle’s database might have something.”  
  
“We can use the training headsets and hook one to the databases for a quick search,” Allura offers. “I used to use it all the time when I was studying. It’s much easier to convey what you are searching for through thought, especially if you don’t have the words.”  
  
“Like control-F for your _mind_ ,” Pidge says, eyes wide and gleaming with excitement. Shiro has a feeling she’ll be using the newfound technique later.  
  
“While I hook that up, why don’t you explain why it’s so important to find somebody who looks like this, hmm?” Coran offers, with a touch of gentleness.  
  
Shiro winces a little at the less than subtle gentle handling he’s getting, and a quick glance around at the others indicates they’re are just as worried and careful. _All right, so maybe I’ve been a little…driven by this_ , he admits to himself, grudgingly. He’d acted a bit out of character since the memory not even a varga ago—suspending practice, acting unfocused, and almost manic with the need for answers.  
  
But he can’t help it. He couldn’t remember anything at all, but now that he’s found the memory again, it’s like it’s screaming inside his head. It’s not Ulaz’s rescue or ways to evade sentry patrols, but it’s _important_ in a way that’s completely different than anything else he’s remembered so far. He can still hear the dying slave’s pleading; the words are still engraved on his heart all this time later, and he’d just forgotten how to see it. But those words don’t _belong_ to him. They belong to Karika and Kuris. And he has to get them there.  
  
He _has_ to.  
  
The rest of them watch him with concern, but none of them look judgmental. They never have been with his other memories, and they’re probably smart enough to guess what happened now. He sighs, and tries to arrange his thoughts, to figure out how to explain it as Coran obtains a headset and starts fiddling with the computers.  
  
“I remembered something,” he says finally, and explains.  
  
“That’s intense,” Hunk says, when Shiro is done. “And really sad, too…”  
  
“It’s…a little weird though, don’t you think?” Keith asks, frowning. “It’s not like any of the other memories you’ve gotten, Shiro. It’s way outside the norm…”  
  
“Does it matter?” Shiro asks—although in truth the memory had unsettled him a little for just that reason. “Not every part of that year could have been arenas and escapes. Other things had to have happened. I have to remember them eventually.” And this feels so _vivid._ So _real._  
  
“We haven’t fully explored the possibility that you could have memory implants,” Pidge cautions warily. “I’m not saying these are fake, but I think we should be careful. It could be some kind of trap.”  
  
“How could it be a trap, though?” Lance asks. “Unless the place this other prisoner is from is Galra controlled or something. Then I guess it could be like bait…okay, maybe it could be a trap.”  
  
“It doesn’t matter,” Shiro insists, more forcefully than intended. “We have to see this through. No— _I_ have to see this through.”  
  
“Woah, hold up,” Hunk says, raising his hands. “Nobody said you have to do this alone.”  
  
“And obviously we’re not letting you,” Keith adds, a touch defensively. The others nod in agreement. Shiro supposes he can’t blame them. He’s only just returned recently after his disappearance following the battle with Zarkon, and he supposes none of them are keen on splitting up again.  
  
“I think all of us agree we’d like to help,” Allura says. “In any way we can. We just also believe approaching with caution might be necessary. You obviously feel very strongly about this memory, and if it is true it is a noble thing to see these final words to the people they are truly meant for. But you should not let emotional attachments drive you without caution, either.”  
  
Shiro bites his lip. They aren’t _wrong_ , but he can feel it in his gut that this isn’t a trap. “Fine,” he agrees. “We’ll be careful. But I need to see this through…and I need the rest of you to trust me. You did with Ulaz, and that led us to the Blade of Marmora as allies. I need that same support now.”  
  
“We’re with you, Shiro, no worries,” Lance agrees. And they look like they mean it, but Shiro can also see hints of skepticism in their eyes, still.  
  
He’ll just have to show them what he means.  
  
“There!” Coran says brightly. He finishes with a flourish on one of the computer monitors, and the holoscreen blinks up in front of them. “Now you just put this headset on, Shiro, and think very hard about the individual in your memory. The headset should scan the imagery and cross-reference it against everything in the Castle of Lion’s database. If we know anything at all about him or his planet, it should be in here somewhere.”  
  
Shiro takes the headset without hesitation, and slips it on. He closes his eyes, and concentrates on the memory as hard as he can. Coran has disabled the feature that makes personal memories and thoughts visible, thankfully, so he can think about that terrible image in his mind without disturbing the others.  
  
“Woah,” Pidge says, sounding fascinated. “Coran, you’ll have to explain to me how this works later…”  
  
Shiro opens his eyes. There are images flicking past at an incredible speed, too fast for his eyes to make them out, as the holoscreen flicks through thousands of bits of data. It seems to be digging through codex and encyclopedia entries at an almost alarming rate, cross-referencing details in Shiro’s head against data in each entry. A progress bar at the top shows the options narrowing, until finally, three doboshes into the search, the flickering images come to a halt.  
  
“Is that him? Or someone from his race, anyway?” Allura asks, regarding the entry curiously.  
  
“Yes,” Shiro whispers. There’s a few photographs on the screen of the same walking stick-like race, with two sets of arms and faces carved out of stone or wood. Surrounding the photos are groups of text, but since it’s all in Altean, Shiro can’t make out any further information.  
  
“The Hotik,” Coran reads, sliding the entry to a new holographic screen for safekeeping. “Heard of them, but couldn’t have told you anything about them. A mostly reclusive race, but familiar with space travel and those from other planets. The planet is Hotikka…coordinates aren’t terribly far, princess. We could make it with a decent wormhole jump.”  
  
“Looks like the Castle picked up a distress beacon a while back, though,” Allura adds, bringing up the massive star map and comparing it to the coordinates. The planet is marked in red, indicating Galra control. “It really _could_ be a trap.” She glances at Shiro, questioning.  
  
“We have to go. I have to try. If nothing else, we can make them the next planet we liberate, anyway,” Shiro says, insistent. “I can’t let this go, princess. Please.”  
  
Allura sighs, and glances around at the others. Nobody objects, and she finally nods. “Alright. We’ll rest up for the evening, and attack first thing in the morning cycle, when everyone is rested and ready.”  
  
Shiro nods grimly in agreement.  
  
The wait until what passes for morning on the Castle is more stressful and agonizing than the actual fight itself. When they come out of the wormhole, most of the team is expecting severe opposition—perhaps the Galra waiting for them, or some form of ambush like on the Balmera.  
  
But it’s only a token force on Hotikka, mostly sentries left behind to ensure compliance. The people here clearly aren’t rebellious enough to cause much trouble, and the Galra just as clearly hadn’t seen fit to waste resources on them other than to keep them in line. Wiping out the sentries and control stations is practically child’s play; they don’t even need Voltron to free this planet. Even so, most of the paladins stick close to Shiro, clearly hesitant just in case it _does_ turn out to be some kind of trap after all.  
  
But the aftermath is much more difficult. The planet is freed, the last of the Galra ships driven away or destroyed, but the people are still in disarray. The whole planet had been occupied, and it’s difficult to help them regain control of their own government and stabilize it. People are everywhere. There’s no order, although team Voltron is helping them to reestablish it themselves.  
  
It’s a good thing, but it makes it very difficult to find two individuals on an entire planet.  
  
Still, Shiro is determined. And for all the team’s caution and skepticism, they jump into helping him find these people with dedication. Hunk and Lance hit the streets of the cities, talking to people and asking if they know of any “Karika’s" or “Kuris’s” and if they can spread the word that the paladins of Voltron want to speak with them. Pidge digs through the digital documents of these people, combing the databases for census records. Allura uses her status as a princess and her connections to the re-established authorities to recruit their help in the search.  
  
Shiro is grateful for their help.  
  
In the end, it’s Hunk and Lance’s word of mouth system that helps them. Someone reports hearing both names in a village outside one of the major cities, and Shiro heads out there immediately in the Black Lion. The others come with him, silent support, and Shiro’s grateful for that, too. He knows they won’t interfere, but he also knows they’re there to see for themselves, and to offer aid if it’s needed.  
  
He leaves the Lion on the outskirts of the village. There’s a crowd waiting when they arrive. The people are curious, drawn to the massive shape of the Black Lion and excited at the visit of its paladin and his order. When he asks after the dead slave’s family, they are instantly able to point him to the home of Karika and Kuris.  
  
He knows it’s the right people the moment he knocks on the door and they answer. The smaller one, no doubt the child, shares many of the dead slave’s characteristics—the same markings on her brittle face, the same carved eye shape. The older one opens the door warily, but looks more relieved when she sees a paladin in full armor, and opens it wider. “Black Paladin Shiro! To what do we owe this honor?”  
  
“No honor,” Shiro answers. Now that the moment is here, his heart is thudding painfully in his chest, and he’s suddenly almost afraid to speak. He knows the words have to be delivered. He knows how important they are. But it will hurt to give them—both for them, and for himself.  
  
But he forces himself to continue anyway. It will hurt, but it has to be done. He owes them that much. He owes the dying slave that much. “Karika and Kuris?” he checks, and the older one, Karika, nods. “I…I have a message for you, from your husband.”  
  
Her eyes can’t widen, exactly, but they flicker in a way that expresses shock for her people, and her two sets of brittle hands start to click together anxiously. “You’ve heard from Turis?” she asks, stunned. “Where is he? Is he okay? Is he alright? By _telviesh_ , he was taken over a year ago—he begged them to leave our village alone and they dragged him away—did you see him? Paladin, did you rescue him?”  
  
Her eyes are bright with hope, and so are the child’s next to her. That hurts more than anything, because Shiro’s the one that’s going to have to break it.  
  
But the words carved into his heart burn. He has to give them away. They deserve to know. Those words aren’t for him. They never _were._  
  
“I’m sorry,” he says. He keeps his tone above a whisper, but only barely.  
  
Her hands wring, both sets of them, and he knows with just those two words she understands. The child looks more confused, and presses close against her mother.  
  
“Please,” Karika says after a moment, voice horrified and shaking, “Please, what…what happened to Turis?”  
  
Shiro closes his eyes a moment. Focuses. “He was a prisoner with me,” he answers. “He was…injured. I tried to do what I could for him, but unfortunately there was no way for me to save him. I’m so sorry.” She just stares. He adds, “He…had things he wanted to say to the two of you, though. He told me how much he loved the both of you. Kuris…he said you were so clever, and he was so proud. You both made him so happy. He missed you and never forgot you for a moment.”  
  
Kuris looks stunned; the poor thing starts to tremble. Her mother wrings her two sets of hands harder, and lets out a low keening noise. It’s nearly the same as what the prisoner had made, and Shiro recognizes it now as sobbing. “Turis,” she wails. “Turis, Turis, oh…no, no, no, no…”  
  
“I’m sorry,” Shiro repeats helplessly. “I wish there was something else I could have done. Something I could have brought back. That I at least _remembered_ faster. I’m so sorry it took so long for us to come. I’m so sorry it took me this long to deliver those words to you.”  
  
Impulsively, the mother reaches out and grips his hand. It’s the right, the prosthetic, but if she recognizes the feel of cold hard metal beneath his paladin armor’s glove she doesn’t show it. Her hands shake hard enough he can feel the prosthetic clicking in response. “You were with him?” she asks, after a moment. “At…at the end? He wasn’t alone?”  
  
“He wasn’t alone,” Shiro promises. “I swear it. It was all I could do. I’m sorry.”  
  
“No. No. No, paladin, don’t…” She swallows, and grips his hand tighter, more insistently. “Thank you. _Thank you._ I don’t…my Turis is…” Another low keening noise escapes her; she can’t seem to stop herself. But she recovers after a moment and moans, “M-my Turis is gone, but…but he wasn’t…he wasn’t alone…at least he wasn’t alone. At least…” She swallows again. “We didn’t know, paladin. It hurt to not know. I was so scared. Oh, _telviesh,_ Turis…” She curls in on herself, and Shiro leans forward quickly, afraid she’s going to collapse and preparing to catch her if she does. “M-my Turis…th-thank you for not l-letting him die alone…”  
  
Her words grow progressively harsher and shaking, until by the end he can barely understand her. Her voice changes from audible words to the low keening noise again, which gets steadily more powerful in volume. She’s leaning so heavily on his right arm by now he’s pretty sure he’s the only thing holding her up. But that’s fine. That’s more than fine. It’s strong enough to handle the weight. It’s about the only thing it’s good for.  
  
Shiro stays with them for a little while. Half a varga, at least; he can’t bring himself to deliver that awful message and leave them to their grief so callously. The mother sobs, and the little daughter buries her face in her mother’s side and whimpers softly into her shirt. They’re both hurting. He feels awful for causing it. He can’t imagine why the woman actually bothered to _thank_ him.  
  
He can feel the other paladins behind him, but none of them speak, and none of them move, and he’s grateful that they don’t intrude. They know his mission here, but it’s still so deeply personal. He’s not sure he could face them on top of all this.  
  
Eventually Karika seems to regain her composure, and pushes off of his arm, standing on her own again. “I’m sorry, Black Paladin Shiro,” she says.  
  
“Don’t apologize. It’s fine. I’m the one that should be sorry.”  
  
She shakes her head. “No. You are a good person, paladin. It…it is a painful message, but thank you for bringing me Turis’ last words. I…I am glad to know he thought of us. And I am glad he wasn’t alone. And…you’re a paladin of Voltron, but you still…you still took the time to find me for Turis…even though you have a universe to save, you still…”  
  
“It’s not like that,” Shiro says immediately. “It’s not…this was important. It was his last message. You had to get it. It doesn’t matter that I’m a part of Voltron—I was the only one with the words. I had to get them to you.” Maybe it feels so small and insignificant compared to the awful burden of saving the universe, but it was important all the same.  
  
She swallows a moment, and then looks Shiro in the eyes. “Thank you for saving us, paladin. And the other paladins as well. You saved us from sharing Turis’ fate. Please save others from it as well.” She reaches out with one of her sets of hands to squeeze his prosthetic fingers again. He can’t feel it, but he appreciates the gesture anyway.  
  
“I intend to,” he promises, and he means that promise. “We’re doing everything we can to keep anything like that from happening ever again.”  
  
“Thank you,” she repeats. And it’s strange, because he can see so much anguish and pain and suffering in her eyes, but he also swears he sees just a glimmer of peace there, too. And that…that makes the guilt in him recede, just slightly.  
  
They leave the broken family be, and Shiro is mostly silent as he treks back to the Black Lion. The other paladins follow, with grave expressions but still close and supportive. They leave him to his thoughts until he’s finally seated in the pilot’s seat again, with the rest of them ranged around him. Then, and only then, does he feel a hand on his shoulder, and glances up to see Keith standing over him.  
  
“You did something good there,” Keith says. “I’m sorry we didn’t believe you at first.”  
  
The others nod in agreement. Hunk adds, “Thanks to you, we freed a whole new planet that we didn’t even know was here. That’s lots of people we saved today.”  
  
“I think…I think you helped them out a lot, too,” Lance says. “They seemed thankful.”  
  
Shiro can’t imagine why. He still feels worthless. He hadn’t really done anything that important in the grand scheme of things…just told a grieving widow and daughter that they were never going to see their husband and father again because he’d been murdered over a year ago. He hadn’t been able to save the prisoner. He hadn’t been able to do anything except deliver his final message.  
  
But even so…  
  
Even so, the words carved into his heart feel a little less heavy, and it seems like the tiniest bit of weight has been lifted from him.  
  
So maybe he did something right, after all.


	2. An apology

The next memory hits him when Pidge gets sick.  
  
It’s not a terrible illness, or anything life threatening. At worst it’s some kind of space virus…enough to make one feel miserable and put them down for a few days, but nothing more extensive. Pidge gets it first, but Lance and Hunk start showing signs of the same symptoms within a quintent. Shiro has a feeling he’ll be catching it before long as well, so there’s no point in avoiding the others. The only one unaffected amongst the humans is Keith, probably due to his Galra biology, which seems to make him far more durable for things like this.  
  
It means the team takes a few quintents off to recover, and Allura hides the Castle of Lions away where they won’t be attacked until the paladins can recover. The Alteans take the time to focus on much needed repairs and upgrades for the ship. That leaves Shiro and Keith spending most of their time delivering water and medication, cobbling together some kind of soup based off Hunk’s recipe cards (Keith cooks), and generally making sure the others are comfortable. If at least one of them is feeling marginally better by the time Shiro inevitably gets sick, Keith at least won’t be stuck trying to deal with all four of them.  
  
Shiro’s in the middle of checking on Pidge in her room when it happens. He knocks on the door gently and lets himself in. In his hands, he carries a tray with a fresh pouch of water, a new cleaned out basin (vomiting was a thing with this one, unfortunately) and the soup that will hopefully be light enough to not bother her stomach. He sets the whole tray down on a nearby table and turns to check on her. Pidge looks miserable, curled up on her bed with her back to the wall in her bunk, feverish and shivering and _she’s curled up against the far wall in a corner of the communal cell, feverish and shivering and weak. Shiro crouches in front of her, ignoring the dull-eyed stares of the rest of the prisoners in the cell with them. Only one or two of them are familiar now. It’s been the better part of a month, Shiro thinks, and most of the prisoners he’d been locked up with before have since died or been shipped to the labor camps, replaced with new fodder for the gladiator rings._  
  
_This one, though, she’s a surprise. Shiro’s seen her in a few gladiator matches, right before his own. Although mostly humanoid in appearance, her entire body is covered with a soft layer of spotted fur, and there’s a narrowness to her face and elongated nose and a pointiness to her ears that put him vaguely in mind of a jackal. She puts him in mind of those old carvings in Egyptian pyramids. She’s also a decent fighter, holding her own fairly well against the mid-tier combatants. Shiro thinks she’s earned the name ‘Wildstrike’ in the arena, and she’s fast enough and clever enough to have earned it. She’s one of the few slaves in this hell hole who’s actually good at the purpose the Galra have put before them._  
  
_That had probably been what doomed her. Three days ago she’d been dragged off for a match that she won against a hard opponent. Two days later she’d been returned to the cells, with her left arm gone, replaced by a shiny metal replica. Two_ hours _after her return to the cells, she’d started getting sick. Very sick._  
  
_Shiro’s been trying to keep an eye on her in between his own bouts. At first he hopes it’s just a cold, or at least the alien equivalent. Or maybe she’s just woozy after whatever drugs the creepy robe people and med techs had used to steal away her arm. The techs certainly seem interested enough in her progress. Shiro’s seen two different ones check in at periodic intervals, taking notes on her status, while the rest of the prisoners cower away from the tall Galra figures in their long coats and eerie facemasks._  
  
_But on the second day Shiro’s sure it’s more than that. By now, she hasn’t tried to get up for hours, and her shivering has increased significantly. Then she’d started whimpering in pain in her not-quite-sleep, and Shiro hadn’t been able to just passively keep an eye out any longer._  
  
_Up close, the damage is worse than Shiro had first realized. The prison uniform hides it a little, but when he’s closer he can see the way the natural part of her left arm has swollen where it meets the metal prosthetic, and see the way the skin is raw and cracked and oozing foul-smelling pus. The discoloration is severe, and even if it’s not an angry red like it would be on a human, that violently purple shade definitely indicates inflammation. It’s abundantly clear to Shiro within seconds that her body isn’t taking kindly to the new foreign object forcibly attached to her, and infection is already setting in._  
  
_Shiro scowls to himself, and glares hatefully over his shoulder back at the doorway, where he’s sure one of the med techs is observing even now. They have to know their newest test subject is severely ill, but they don’t seem to care. They aren’t doing anything to help her adjust to this new prosthetic, or help deal with the pain or fever its intrusive insertion is causing. It’s like this is just another experiment to them, and to hell with the subjects, as long as they learn something from it._  
  
_But then, that’s hardly surprising. Shiro’s already fought more than one gladiator slave in the arena with some sort of implant or modification. Gladiator slaves are fodder, and it probably makes them ideal for experimentation too, if you’re strong enough to catch their attention. If you die, nobody cares. You were supposed to die anyway._  
  
_It makes the whole place some sick sort of catch-22. To live, you have to be strong—stronger than anything. But being strong catches their eyes. Catch their eyes, and you may be destined to die in even worse ways, curled up in a corner of a cell burning alive inside while your own body tears you apart._  
  
_Shiro wonders, as he crouches next to her and stares, if this will be his fate someday._  
  
_But then she makes another soft, pained whimper, and tries to curl up tighter on herself, and Shiro snaps out of his daze. Death might be inevitable in his future, sooner rather than later, but it isn’t today, and that means he can still do something. And today, he can do something for her._  
  
_He reaches out to adjust her position slightly. The way she’d collapsed in the corner, she’s inadvertently putting a lot of undue stress on the injured limb, and probably causing herself more pain than she realizes. At his touch, her eyes snap open, and she gasps, trying to lash out weakly in defense. The attack is uncoordinated, because the metal arm isn’t particularly responsive, and it seems to be a little too heavy for her to manipulate yet. She isn’t used to it, and cries out in pain a moment later when it pulls at what remains of her left limb._  
  
_“Easy,” Shiro soothes. “Easy. I’m not here to hurt you. I’m trying to help.”_  
  
_She stares at him in feverish confusion, eyes clouded and hazy, but he can see the disbelief in her expression anyway. It’s not really surprising. Champion’s rising very quickly in the ranks and making a name for himself as a bloodthirsty fighter. Inevitably, the two of them would have met in the arena at some point, destined to fight until severe injury or death. It probably seems strange to think Champion could offer aid._  
  
_Shiro doesn’t care. To hell with the Galra and to hell with Champion. He’s here, he can still act, and he can’t do much but damn it all if he isn’t at least going to try to do what’s right. If they think they can turn him into a pit beast they’ve got another fucking thing coming._  
  
_“Lay like this,” Shiro continues, when she doesn’t try to push him away again. “It might hurt less. You can breathe easier.” He adjusts her carefully as he speaks, and she doesn’t object to his touch again, letting him help. But she does sigh a little when he’s finished, and her breathing does sound slightly less harsh. Her eyes slide shut._  
  
_A moment later, she whispers, “Thank you, Champion.”_  
  
_“Shiro,” he corrects. “It’s just Shiro.”_  
  
_She’s silent for a very long moment, and he wonders if maybe she’s fallen into a fever-induced sleep. But after a moment, she says, “Serrata. Not…Wildstrike.”_  
  
_Shiro nods. “Serrata,” he acknowledges. In a godawful place like this, your real identity is a valuable possession, and having it acknowledged is practically a blessing. “Take it easy. Try to stay calm. You can make it through this.”_  
  
_She makes a snuffling noise that he realizes is a snort of disbelief. She already knows she’s dying. So does he. Both of them have seen it and caused it enough in the arenas to know how this ends. But she seems to appreciate the kindness anyway._  
  
_Shiro sits down directly next to her, right by her head, leaning back against the wall. He’s partly a deterrent against any would-be attackers—nobody tries to mess with Champion in the cells anymore—and partly an offer of companionship. Serrata might die, but at least she doesn’t have to die alone._  
  
_She gets worse pretty rapidly after that. The stench of infected flesh and the tang of fever gets stronger, and several of the other prisoners sidle away until there’s a wide bubble of empty space around them. Her breaths grow more shallow. Shiro can feel the heat starting to emanate from her after a little while from the fever, and her fine spotted fur starts to grow damp with sweat._  
  
_When the guards arrive with their ration allotments at feeding time, it’s almost a blessing. By now, Shiro feels comfortable enough leaving her. At this point, nobody is willing to go near Serrata, to avoid the smell and the sickness if nothing else, not even for a chance to steal her title. He gets his rations, but when he points to Serrata in the corner to ask where hers are, one of the medical techs intervenes._  
  
_“Nothing for her,” he orders the guards. “Not worth feeding at this rate.”_  
  
_“At least let her have some water!” Shiro says angrily. “You won’t do anything else to help her after what_ you _did to her. She’s suffering!”_  
  
_“She’s dying,” the medical tech answers, indifferent. “Not worth spending supplies on. It’s a waste.”_  
  
_“You can’t—“_  
  
_“Enough,” the tech snaps, shifting from indifference to anger. “Or you’ll lose yours, too.”_  
  
_Shiro isn’t sure if the tech means his food or his arm, but he glares hatefully at the Galra all the same. He can see there’s no way to fight this, though. He eventually clenches his jaw, accepts his water and his meager rations of some sort of processed alien food bar, and retreats back to his corner, next to Serrata. The other prisoners stare at him with mixed expressions—some seem surprised that he even fought, and others seem annoyed at him for who knows what reason. He ignores them._  
  
_Serrata doesn’t seem to have tracked the conversation. Hours ago she knew she was dying; by now she’s so out of it that she probably doesn’t understand the med techs have written her experiment off as a loss. She mewls pitifully when he settles down next to her again, curling up tighter against her suffering._  
  
_“Water,” she pleads, after a few moments._  
  
_Shiro gives her some of his own. He knows it’s stupid—he needs to stay hydrated in order to keep surviving in the arena, and there’s only so much water to be had. He knows the med tech is observing him through the doorway and writing him off as an idiot. He doesn’t care. It’s the tiniest little rebellion he can manage, and more importantly, it’s all the comfort left that he can offer._  
  
_So he lifts her as carefully as he can manage, shushing gently when she whimpers in pain again, and tilts the small water bottle to help her drink. She laps at the water gratefully. When she’s done, he helps her lay back down as comfortably as possible, resting her head against his thigh this time. The elevation seems to help her breathe just a tad easier._  
  
_“Thank you,” she whispers. Shiro barely hears her._  
  
_“It’s alright,” he tells her. “Just rest.” He places his hand on her head without thinking, and almost pulls it away before he notices her relax just slightly. Contact must be a form of comfort, then. He leaves it where it is._  
  
_She’s not very coherent after that. Her shivering gets worse, and the heat from her skin and the smell of the infection get even stronger. She mutters to herself in a not-quite-doze, words Shiro can’t quite make out even with the universal translators he’s pretty sure are installed in the whole ship they’re on. When she’s not muttering, she’s whimpering in pain, and all he can do is listen. He hates it, but he knows it won’t be long now._  
  
_He’s genuinely surprised when she addresses him then, in a startling moment of clarity. “Sh…shiro…you are strong…but not…heartless…I heard you t…took another’s wo…words. Will you…take…mine…too?”_  
  
_Shiro’s eyes widen at that. He hadn’t expected that one incident from before to start any sort of rumor._  
  
_But what else can he say but yes to that kind of request? “What do you want to say?”_  
  
_She takes a deep, harsh breath, one he can hear rattling inside of her. “My pl…anet…Ker..Kerritas. My f-father…Orman Sa…Sandrunner…” She swallows. “Say…s-say that I…I am sorry. I am so…s-so sorry…It was a…a f-foolish argu…ment…I s-see that now…I w-would t-take it…all back…if I c-could…if…I’m sorry. S-so…so…s-sor-ry…”_  
  
_By the end she’s broken into harsh sobs that make her shallow, ragged breaths all the more painful sounding. She seems so_ young _. It’s heart-wrenching to listen to._  
  
_“Shhh,” he soothes. “Hush. It’s alright. I’ll tell him. I promise.” He hesitates a moment, and then adds, “And I’m sure he’s already forgiven you.”_  
  
_Maybe he hasn’t; maybe one day Shiro will track him down and he’ll be livid. But Serrata doesn’t need to know that. She’s dying—she needs kindness more than anything else, even if maybe it’s a lie._  
  
_“M’sorry…” she sobs tiredly. “M’so sorry…” Shiro’s not sure she even heard him. Her strength, what little she had gathered for her final words, is spent. Her body sags weightlessly, and her voice trails off into inaudible murmuring. Even her whimpering grows quieter._  
  
_An hour later, she’s gone._  
  
_But Shiro sits there for hours more, thinking back on the last things he ever said to his family, to his friends, and wondering if he’ll ever get to see any of them again. He will escape, he tells himself. He won’t die like this. He will return to them and deliver his own words._  
  
_But he’ll carry the words of Serrata the gladiator slave too, alongside the words of the first prisoner. And even if she doesn’t reach home again, he’ll make sure her memory does._  
  
“Shiro?”  
  
He blinks, and he’s not in a cell anymore. He’s in Pidge’s room, and she’s staring at him with red-rimmed eyes and a generally miserable expression. Even looking as sick and awful as she does, though, she also looks concerned. “You okay, Shiro? You look spooked…”  
  
“I…” Shiro shakes his head, like he’s trying to clear away his thoughts. But once again, just like before, that memory weighs heavy on his heart. Serrata’s last, sobbing words to her father are so loud in his head that it physically makes him ache. He feels like he’s intruding on them. They’re not for _him_ , just like Turis’ words hadn’t been. They’re meant for someone else. He has to deliver them. He has to get rid of them.  
  
“Did you remember something?” Pidge asks.  
  
He nods.  
  
It takes over a full spicolian movement before they can even _think_ about attempting to deliver that last message. Just like Shiro had predicted, he’d gotten sick within a quintent. With four of the five paladins down, and Keith left absolutely exhausted from running around trying to help as much as possible, there’d been simply no way to travel safely. And Shiro gets that, logically, he _does._  
  
But it’s a miserable series of quinents spent waiting all the same. Serrata’s final words haunt his dreams. He can see her suffering and dying slowly over and over again because of the Galra’s uncaring experimentation. Even worse, while his memory-self couldn’t comprehend her pain, the Shiro of the present certainly can—every time his amputated arm throbs, every time tearing and squeezing phantom sensations wrack his brain. Sometimes, after waking from one of those dreams, he stares at his metal palm and wonders if he came _that_ close to death. He wonders how he survived it at all.  
  
It’s miserable, but once everyone is better, Shiro is at least grateful to see they’re fully on board with helping him track down Serrata’s father. He’d explained his most recent memory to everyone, and this time they’d believed him without hesitation. While he’d been down with the space virus, tossing and turning and hacking up his guts, Coran and Allura had researched into ‘Kerritas’ and located its coordinates and its status. As soon as everyone is on their feet, they’re ready to go, and willing to help find the person in question no matter what what it takes.  
  
“Kerritas is an unoccupied planet,” Coran informs them. He’s unusually solemn when he speaks, as he flicks through holographic displays of everything he’s researched in the past few quintents. The images of the people on the planet look familiar to Shiro, all the same long limbs and ears and vaguely jackal-like faces. The planet seems to be comprised largely of deserts and canyons, with cities cropping up around precious lakes and rivers. “We should be welcomed without any issues, and they’re familiar with space travel. I’m sure they’d be more than happy to collaborate with Voltron to find your person.”  
  
And he’s not wrong. There are no incidents landing on the planet, and they’re welcomed by a friendly and mostly peaceful people. Shiro thinks its lucky Zarkon hasn’t found them yet; he’s not sure if they’d be able to fight back. He finds it difficult to match these people up against the fierce and deadly gladiator fighter Serrata had been.  
  
Finding her father is a little more difficult, but just like before, everyone on the ship pitches in to help. This time it’s Allura’s discussions with the nobility that gets them an in to the old census files and registrars, and Orman Sandrunner is eventually tracked down in the middle of one of the bustling river cities.  
  
Just like before, the rest of the team accompanies Shiro for support. But just like before, they back off when he knocks at the door, and give him the space he needs to complete his mission. And he appreciates that, more than they probably realize. He knows from experience now that this part is…it’s hard. It’s very hard. It’s nice to know they’re there, that he’s not alone, but it’s also something deeply personal that he needs to do for himself. These words aren’t his, and they don’t belong to the other paladins, either.  
  
The door opens after a dobosh, and the alien that opens it is definitely Serrata’s father—Shiro can already see the similarities in their facial features and spot patterns. “Can I help you?” the man asks politely, blinking at Shiro in his full paladin armor, and glancing around him at the other paladins back a respectful distance.  
  
“Orman Sandrunner?” Shiro asks. The man nods, a little wary but not completely distrustful. “I’m a paladin of Voltron. So are my friends.” He waves at the others behind him over his shoulder. Orman’s wariness seems to decrease at that—Voltron is a legendary name across thousands of planets.  
  
Shiro swallows, and steels himself mentally for the next words. “I have news about your daughter…and a message from her.”  
  
Orman stares at him for a long moment. Shiro is almost about to ask if he heard, or if he’s okay, when the man rasps suddenly, “She’s dead…isn’t she?”  
  
There’s an uncomfortable pang in Shiro’s heart at the bluntness of the question, but he nods anyway. “I’m sorry.”  
  
Shiro’s not sure what kind of reaction he’s expecting. It certainly isn’t for Orman to abruptly drop to his knees in the doorway, still staring blankly ahead. He looks stunned. Shiro feels awkward towering over him for something so sensitive and so important, so he crouches down on one knee, until he’s eye level with the man again. “Sir? Are you okay?”  
  
It’s a stupid question, really. Of course the man’s not okay. Shiro just told him his daughter was dead. No one would be okay after that.  
  
But Shiro’s words seem to snap Orman out of his daze, and he blinks out of his blank stare to meet Shiro’s eyes. “What happened?” He asks. “Tell me everything. Please.” His voice is harsh, but Shiro can hear the pain in his words. The man is already hurting.  
  
He’s about to make it worse.  
  
“She was captured by the Galra somehow,” Shiro says quietly. “I don’t know the specifics. I knew her as a gladiator slave. She was a survivor…unbeatable in the ring. They…injured her for it. It made her very sick.” He’s not sure if he should go in depth regarding the prosthetic experimentation. He’s not sure he’d want his own mother and father to know how much he’s suffered because of _his._  
  
“My little girl died because of the Galra?” Orman asks. He’s still staring at Shiro, wide eyed, expression dazed. He’s still in shock. The news hasn’t quite hit him yet, Shiro thinks.  
  
“Yes,” Shiro says softly. “I’m sorry.”  
  
“I knew this would happen,” Orman says, in almost a whisper. Shiro barely hears him. He’s not sure if he’s even supposed to. “I told her joining the rebels was foolish. I _told_ her.” He seems to realize Shiro is still there a second later. “You said…you had a message? From Ser?”  
  
Shiro swallows again. This is the moment, the entire reason he came, but he knows it’s going to be painful. “She said she was sorry. She said it was a foolish argument. That she’d take back everything she said if she could. She was so sorry.” And just like he had before when speaking with Serrata, he hesitates, and adds, “I got the impression she really wished she had your forgiveness, sir.”  
  
That seems to be all it takes. Orman’s stunned, blank expression changes in an instant. There’s tears spilling over from his eyes all of a sudden, and his face crumples into an expression of pure pain. “I forgave her the day she left,” he says helplessly. “I was never angry. _Never_. I was scared to death she’d leave and never come back…and…” His shoulders shake with sobs, and his head bows under the weight of so much grief. Shiro feels helpless to do anything to assist, and guilty for causing so much pain.  
  
“But I was never angry,” Orman finally whispers, after several long moments. “I was so proud of her…she just wanted to help people…help save the world…”  
  
Shiro can imagine it. Lots of ideals died in the gladiator arenas. It killed hopes and dreams just as violently as it did people.  
  
Orman sniffles, and then looks up again, to meet Shiro’s eyes once more. “You were…there? Were you a rebel too?” His eyes flick to the paladin armor, and the sharp black V shape across Shiro’s chest.  
  
“No,” Shiro admits. “But I guess I am now, in a way. I wasn’t a fellow soldier of hers.”  
  
“But you were with her at the…at the end,” Orman presses insistently.  
  
It’s nearly the same question Karika had asked of the other prisoner Turis, Shiro can’t help but notice. He’s not sure what comfort it brings, but he answers honestly anyway. “Yes. I stayed with her until the end. I’m sorry…that was the most I could do for her.”  
  
“Did she hurt?” Orman asks helplessly.  
  
Shiro can hear her whimpers of pain all too easily in his memory, and see the angry purple inflammation all around her severed arm. It’s reflected just as painfully in the throb of his own right arm’s remains. “I tried to help alleviate it as much as I could,” he promises, not quite answering the question.  
  
But Orman’s not stupid. He knows what that means. One of his hands comes up to cover his face, and Shiro gives him the time to process it. But after several doboshes, the man finally rasps, “Thank you.”  
  
Shiro frowns at that. Once again, he’s being thanked for delivering some of the worst news possible; it just doesn’t make sense. “There’s no need to thank me,” he insists. “I’m sorry I couldn’t do more.”  
  
The man shakes his head, and stares at Shiro again. His eyes are still watery, but he seems insistent. “No. You’ve…you’ve already done more than I could have hoped for. I’d always guessed, I’d always known deep down, I think, but…but at least she wasn’t alone. At least…someone helped. That was what she wanted to fight for. People helping each other. The world getting stronger again.” His eyes drop to the Voltron ‘V’ on Shiro’s armor again. “And that’s what you do now…isn’t it?”  
  
“Yes,” Shiro says.  
  
“Don’t let this happen to others,” Orman pleads. “Make all this war _stop_. Maybe others won’t watch their daughters and sons die then.”  
  
“I will,” Shiro promises. He and the others _will_ bring an end to this ten thousand year conquest, or die trying.  
  
“Thank you,” Orman says. “Thank you. Thank you for…for everything. Maybe Serrata will…maybe her dream will still happen. One day. I would like to see that. For her. Thank you.”  
  
Shiro helps him to his feet. Orman is still shaky from the news, but Shiro can hardly blame him. He helps the father inside, helps him contact a few family members to come assist him, and then departs once they arrive. It’s a family matter now—Shiro has no right to intrude on it. At least the man is taken care of, and has the words again.  
  
The others wordlessly fall in around him once he finally leaves the house. Keith, Lance, Hunk and Pidge don’t say anything, but they do provide silent support. Even if Shiro doesn’t really feel like discussing the whole mess at the moment, it’s nice to not be alone with his thoughts anyway.  
  
They stay with him for the rest of the day, but inevitably night comes, and Shiro’s alone again. And it feels… _strange,_ because he’s not really sure _how_ he should feel about all of this. On the one hand, Serrata’s words carved into his heart feel lighter than before, just like the words of Turis, and it’s a relief to know they’ve been given to the people who really deserve them and Shiro had kept his word.  
  
But at the same time, there’s something else heavy on his heart, weighing him down. Because their family members had both _thanked_ him. They’d thanked him for delivering awful news, and they’d been genuine. They’d _meant_ that thanks. And Shiro can’t help but feel disturbed and a little guilty, for accepting that heartfelt thanks when he doesn’t feel he’s deserved it.  
  
He can’t even fall asleep with those feelings heavy on his heart and those thoughts spinning around in his mind, so he heads for the bridge. They’re in deep space again, and it’s sort of comforting to stare out at the blackness and the little pinpricks of stars in the distance. Even if he doesn’t recognize any of the constellations, it’s still the sort of thing that used to calm him down back on Earth.  
  
“You okay, Shiro?”  
  
Shiro blinks, and looks over his shoulder to find Keith a few steps away. He looks tired and his hair is a little messy from sleep, but even so the concern in his face and voice is real.  
  
“Sorry. Did I wake you?”  
  
Keith shrugs. “I’m a light sleeper. You didn’t answer my question.”  
  
Of course Keith wouldn’t let him dodge a question that easy. Shiro sighs, but Keith will pursue the question relentlessly until he gets answers, so he finally admits, “It just…doesn’t seem right. That he thanked me, today.”  
  
Keith frowns as he pads over to stand next to Shiro, also staring out at the darkness of space. “Why? You brought him news he didn’t have about his daughter. Seems like it’s worth thanking you for.”  
  
“I brought him news that his daughter died of torture in a Galra arena,” Shiro says, a little bitterly. “I told him I couldn’t do a damn thing about it. I told him she was in pain when she died. All I could bring him was _words,_ not a memento or a body to bury. And he _thanked_ me. The last family, too. They thanked me. I told all of them they were never going to see their family members again because they’d died in the most unfair way imaginable and they _thanked_ me.” He feels disgusted with himself, guilty at not being able to do anything else, and guilty that he’d managed to escape and has to tell those loved ones that their family members _didn’t._ It doesn’t seem fair to anyone.  
  
Keith is silent for a long time. Shiro figures he’s doing what he usually does—being a silent sounding board, willing to just listen without judgement or interruption. That doesn’t bother Shiro. The companionable silence is fine by him.  
  
But then Keith suddenly speaks up. “You know, that year you were gone was the worst year of my life.”  
  
“What?” Shiro stares at Keith in surprise. Keith’s not looking at him directly; he’s still staring off into space, arms crossed over his chest. Shiro can’t help but wince, feeling guilty for a whole new reason. “I’m sorry, Keith. I never meant to leave you or anyone else behind like that—“  
  
“I know you didn’t,” Keith interrupts. “That’s not what I’m saying. I’m saying in that year? When you disappeared? I would have given _anything_ just for even a little news about what happened to you. Just to _know_. I knew it wasn’t really a pilot error, you were too good for that. But I didn’t know what it could have really been. What _really_ happened. I came up with a hundred thousand different scenarios for what _might_ have happened, each worse than the last. It…wasn’t pleasant.  
  
“So if some alien came down from the sky and gave me your last words?” Keith says. “Yeah, it’d hurt like _hell._ I don’t think I’d ever get over it. But at least I’d _know_. No more wondering if you were lost somewhere, or suffering. No more _not knowing_. It’s painful, but it’s closure. They can finally grieve because they have an answer, and then maybe one day they can move on.”  
  
He finally stops staring out at the emptiness of space, and turns to meet Shiro’s eyes. “You're doing good work. And trust me, it means something to them.”  
  
Shiro’s stunned at the words. He hadn’t considered it that way, but…he doesn’t think Keith is wrong. Maybe they’re not thanking him for the awful news. Maybe they’re thanking him for the closure it brings. Maybe he can’t bring them a body to bury or a memento to remember them by. But he can bring them last memories, last words, and he can bring them an end to that feeling of being stuck in stasis, waiting for an answer.  
  
“Thanks, Keith,” he says.  
  
Keith just shrugs, and goes back to staring out the windows. Shiro knows how uncomfortable emotions and discussions like this can be for him, and that makes the effort Keith took to help all the more admirable.  
  
They stare out into the blackness of space silently, and Shiro feels the last of that uncomfortable weight from the memories and the words finally leaving him.


	3. A prayer

The third memory comes in the middle of a discussion with the leaders of a new planet, potential new allies against the Galra Empire. Allura is leading the discussion, but they’d asked for all the paladins of Voltron to be there as well, to speak with them and see their dedication to the fight. It’s not an unfair request—Allura is asking them to swear their allegiance to Voltron, after all, and they have every right to know who Voltron is comprised of.   
  
So they attend a formal dinner. The dignitaries are decent enough folk, a little cautious but understandably so. Their questions are fair enough, learning about each paladin’s dedication to the fight and some of their individual feats. The paladins are on their best behavior and the dignitaries seem impressed.   
  
It’s when they turn to Shiro for questions that it happens. “Black Paladin Shiro,” one of them says, “I have heard that you have some understanding of the inner workings of the Galra Empire—“  
  
 _“Champion,” the prisoner says, stalking towards him in the communal cell, “I have heard that you will take Last Words.”_  
  
 _Shiro blinks up at his fellow prisoner. He’s a newcomer, doing fairly well in the lower levels of the arena, but not well enough yet to have earned a ridiculous ring name. The prisoner is twice again Shiro’s height, and built like a brick wall, with rough sandpapery skin, thick sausage-like fingers, and a wide, squarish face with a flat nose and mouth. Although he looks like the rough-and-tumble sort, his speech is surprisingly eloquent and educated sounding, at least as far as Shiro can tell with the translators._  
  
 _He can also practically hear the capital letters in that sentence, and frowns. He’d taken the first prisoner’s words without meaning to, and he hadn’t been able to refuse Serrata’s request, but he hadn’t intended to start something in the prison. “I suppose you could say I’ve done that,” he says cautiously, after a moment._  
  
 _“It is fitting,” the prisoner says. “You are a skilled warrior. You have earned the kingstitle here. You will survive to carry the Words. I will ask you to take my Words as well.”_  
  
 _“I’m not sure what you mean. You seem pretty alive to me.” Shiro can’t help but feel a little baffled at the request. The first prisoner and Serrata had been dying. No one else was willing to approach them. They’d spoken to him out of desperation, and begged him to carry their last words while clawing for one last hope for their families._  
  
 _But this is different. This prisoner is fully alive, but speaks in a way that almost reminds him of a supplicant taking their last rites to a priest. And Shiro’s not sure he’s very comfortable getting put into a role like that. He’d been there for the dying prisoners when no one else was, but he doesn’t want to get dragged into some kind of religious role in the prison, not when it’s a fight to just survive himself every day._  
  
 _“I will not survive this arena, Champion. This I know.” The prisoner’s words are matter of fact. He doesn’t seem frightened by them, just resigned._  
  
 _“You’ve survived three bouts already,” Shiro counters. He’s not sure he’s comfortable with somebody just…_ accepting _their death so easily when they still have a fighting chance. “That’s more than the first fodder usually does.”_  
  
 _But the prisoner shakes his head, and waves one ham-sized fist dismissively. Shiro tenses automatically, but it isn’t an attack, just an absent gesture. “Only because I am much larger than my opponents, and they are just as unskilled as me,” he says bluntly. “Size is an advantage here. But size does not matter against a skilled opponent. Your defeat of Myzax proves that.” Shiro raises his eyebrows in surprise, and the prisoner says, “Yes, of course I know of that, even if I came after. Many of the prisoners speak of Champion’s ascension fight.”_  
  
 _Shiro’s not sure what to think about that. By now he’s solidified his place as a bloodthirsty fighter in the arena, and most of the prisoners regard him with wary awe, even when he leaves them alone or makes no aggressive moves towards them. He hadn’t expected his fights to become a thing of story._  
  
 _“I am truly no fighter,” the prisoner continues. “I have always been a scholar. When I ascend to the upper ranks soon, they will kill me.”_  
  
 _“I’m sorry,” Shiro says. It’s all he can do._  
  
 _“I have accepted my lot in life,” the prisoner says. “I cannot escape. I will not live. Most people here do not. But perhaps, you might.”_  
  
 _Shiro frowns. “You just said most people here don’t live. What makes you think I will, too? I’m just as likely to die. Probably more likely—they face me off against the really dangerous opponents now.”_  
  
 _“Perhaps,” the prisoner agrees. “But you are different, Champion. Your ferocity is unmatched in combat. You have earned your kingstitle. But no other prisoner has ever bothered to accept the Last Words of their dying brethren, or comfort them into the Last Sleep. You have shown kindness in the midst of great cruelty. Your soul is different. It is very strong. Perhaps it will survive to carry the Words as promised.”_  
  
 _Shiro doesn’t know what to say to that. He doesn’t think there’s any thing particularly special about him, other than the fact that he’s been lucky enough to not die yet. And who knows how long that will last._  
  
 _“So I will ask that you take my_ Ser’sazin _prayer,” the prisoner finishes. “My Last Words.”_  
  
 _“I…I’m not sure what…” Shiro trails off helplessly, wishing he wasn’t nearly so ignorant about the hundreds of alien races he’s seen thus far._  
  
 _“The_ Ser’sazin _prayer among my people is sacred,” the prisoner explains patiently. “It is our final prayer, our last call to the gods before death. It speaks of all of our deeds and our desires, our weaknesses and our strengths, our goals in life and what we have done to reach them to honor our deities. My soul cannot ascend to paradise until a priestess sanctifies my_ Ser’sazin _prayer. Normally a close family member would bring it to the temples, but I have none else to carry it. I have no siblings and no spouse, and I carried the_ Ser’sazin _for my parents. The priestesses would come to my abode in my final hours to take it for me if I were home, but I was captured.”_  
  
 _The prisoner fixes him with a pleading look, and for the first time the resignation seems to peel back enough for Shiro to recognize fear. “I do not wish for my soul to be trapped in the lower world, Champion. I accept my coming death, but I do not wish for an eternity of torment. Please, Champion. Accept my_ Ser’sazin _. Carry it to the priestesses for me when I die.”_  
  
 _Shiro’s never held much for religion, himself. His mother practiced Shinto and his father was Buddhist, and both had tried to keep him involved in their beliefs. But he’d never felt much of a pull towards religion, and they had never tried to force him when he’d grown older. The same with most Western religions too, when he’d been exposed to those._  
  
 _But he’d always understood that it meant a lot to others, and he can see the same thing in this prisoner’s eyes, now. Shiro’s not sure he quite believes the concept of being trapped in a lower plane until this special prayer is delivered, but he can see it means everything to this prisoner, and it’s all that he has left. Could it really hurt to give him some small measure of relief before the arenas claim him? If their places were reversed, Shiro would take the chance in a heartbeat to get a message back to his parents, or to Keith._  
  
 _“Alright,” Shiro says. “I can promise to at least try. But I can’t promise that I can get out of here. You might think I’m different, but I think I could just as easily die before you do. But if I do get out of here, I’ll find a way to deliver your prayer.”_  
  
 _“This is acceptable,” the prisoner agrees. “And perhaps you doubt, but I have faith. You will find the way eventually. I think that your soul is meant for far greater things than this prison.”_  
  
 _Shiro doesn’t have much cause to believe him, but he keeps his disbelief to himself. He’s almost envious of that level of faith, in a way. It must be nice to be so completely calm and assured about the future._  
  
 _The prisoner wastes no time after that. He introduces himself as Lylixx, and tells Shiro he hails from a planet called Mephylstryxen. It’s hard enough to get his tongue around the planet’s name, but the_ Ser’sazin _prayer is even more difficult. It’s in a language that sounds beautiful and is lilting and poetic, but Shiro has no idea what the words are—the translators don’t seem to pick up on it. It’s long and rambling, and Lylixx explains that it is essentially his life story, or at least the core parts of it. The priestesses will enshrine it so they can offer the core of Lylixx’s deeds to the gods and let his soul ascend, or something to that effect. Shiro has trouble getting his tongue around the words at first, but Lylixx repeats it over and over patiently, correcting any mispronunciations, and eventually Shiro starts to get the hang of it._  
  
 _When he can repeat it five times in a row with no errors, Lylixx claps his great hands together once and says, “Most excellent. My thanks, Champion. When I perish, at least you will be able to carry my Last Words and my soul to the priestesses. Your kindness will not be forgotten.”_  
  
 _“It’s fine,” Shiro says. “Really. Don’t worry about it. Just…just do what you can to survive. Keep fighting. Better if you can bring your own words back yourself.”_  
  
 _Lylixx offers him what Shiro can only assume is a salute. “Wise words, Champion. I will do my best.”_  
  
 _Two weeks later, he’s killed in combat in the arenas._  
  
 _A week after that, Shiro faces his killer in the ring when the fighter ascends to Shiro’s combat level. Shiro puts him down effortlessly, Lylixx’s_ Ser’sazin _singing in his ears throughout the entire fight._  
  
 _He repeats the poetic prayer every night, just to ensure he remembers the exact pronunciation and phrase of the words he doesn’t understand. It’s a third promise he’s taken into his heart. And maybe he doesn’t believe a damn word of it, and maybe he thinks the entire concept of being trapped here until the prayer is delivered is ridiculous. But that’s Lylixx’s soul on the line, and the slave had come to_ him _for help when he couldn’t find it anywhere else, and Shiro doesn’t intend to let him be forgotten._   
  
“—sir? Black Paladin Shiro? I apologize, have I said something to offend?”  
  
“The Galra inner workings are a bit of a sensitive subject,” Allura intervenes smoothly. “Perhaps we should move on to a different topic for the time being. I assure you Shiro is knowledgable, and his knowledge has been instrumental to many of our missions in the past.”   
  
“I see. My apologies.”   
  
Shiro starts a little when someone touches his arm. He blinks, and Hunk leans in close on his left side to murmur, “You okay, Shiro?”   
  
“I’m…” Shiro swallows. Now is _not_ the time to be having a memory episode, no matter what the subject. “I’m fine. I’m okay. Sorry for spacing out.”  
  
“Not your fault,” Lance says, leaning in from the other side. Allura and Pidge are tag-teaming to keep the dignitaries busy with a discussion of combat technology, and they seem distracted enough. It gives Lance and Hunk time to assess him, Shiro realizes. “Anyway, you look like you remembered somebody’s words…”  
  
Shiro blinks in surprise. “How’d you know that?” he asks after a moment.  
  
“Your expression,” Lance says, as if this is obvious. “It’s…it’s _different_ when you remember somebody’s story, instead of something all strategic. Less gung-ho, more ‘oh no.’ ” Shiro blinks at this, but when he glances at Hunk for confirmation, the yellow paladin just nods in agreement.   
  
“Oh,” Shiro says after a moment. He’s not sure what else to say. He’s not even sure if it’s a good thing that they can read his episodes that well by now.   
  
“Don’t worry,” Hunk assures. “This thing is almost over, and Allura’s working these guys over easy. They’ll be signed on to the alliance in a day, and then we can track down whoever you saw’s planet.”   
  
The dignitaries call to Hunk to draw him into the technological discussion then, and he turns away from Shiro to answer. Lance gives his arm a reassuring pat and offers an understanding grin. It’s not the most ideal situation for something like this to come up in, but he’s never been more grateful to his friends for having him covered, or for being so immediately supportive.  
  
Hunk’s not wrong, and the entire dinner is wrapped up with another planet as part of the Voltron Alliance. After that, _everyone_ is waiting to hear the latest memory, and on board with finding the planet and delivering the message, with a devotion that’s almost surprising to Shiro. Coran immediately jumps to researching the planet and finding its coordinates, and Allura waits by the control pylons for the ship with what Shiro swears is almost impatience. The rest of the paladins are already discussing different techniques they can use to find the proper temple, and arguing over whether or not it would be religiously polite to take the Lions, and if so, which one would be best for proper appearances.   
  
“Why are you all so…energetic about this?” Shiro asks in bewilderment.   
  
All six of them turn to stare at Shiro in surprise. After a moment, Pidge answers for all of them. “Well, for starters, it’s a nice thing to do. I know I’d want somebody to tell me if something happened to dad or Matt.” Keith, behind her, gives Shiro a pointed look. “But also,” Pidge adds, “Every time we do, you seem…a little better, I guess?”   
  
“Relieved,” Hunk agrees. “Like there’s a little weight off your shoulders.”  
  
“So we like helping, because it helps these people, but it helps _you_ too,” Lance finishes, like it’s the most obvious answer in the world.   
  
“Well said,” Coran agrees, snapping his mustache. Allura nods, smiling over her controls.  
  
Shiro is so stunned by the answer he doesn’t even know what to say. But once again, he’s reminded of just how much he relies on them all, and just how much he trusts and appreciates them.   
  
And he’s glad for the speed with which they address finding this planet. Because now that Shiro can remember, Lylixx’s final words are heavy on his mind. More than that, Shiro almost feels like the slave’s ghost is hovering around them, waiting. He’d said himself he would be trapped here until the prayer was delivered. Shiro doesn’t really believe it, but it’s hard to not imagine the dead prisoner hovering nearby all the same, the last remnants of his soul bound up in Shiro’s memory, just waiting for its final release.   
  
Shiro’s just sorry it took him so long to remember that ghost was even there.  
  
Finding Mephylstryxen is easy enough, with Coran’s research and Allura’s wormholes. The place isn’t occupied by the Galra, fortunately, and there’s no nasty welcoming party waiting for them. Pidge hacks into the general databases as soon as they’re within orbit, using several satellites around the planet, and locates the biggest, most well-respected temple it has to offer.   
  
Based on the data Coran had initially researched, these people have a great respect for the rivers and lakes and oceans of their planet, believing the currents help to take lost souls to paradise when their prayers have finally been accepted. Many of the temples reside on waterfronts. So they end up taking the Blue Lion, Guardian Spirit of Water, down to the temple’s entrance. Lance pilots with an unusual level of solemnity, and guides the Blue Lion in without any of his typical flight antics.   
  
The priestesses welcome them with benevolence, patiently waiting for the paladins of Voltron to disembark. The difference between the commoners and the priestesses is a little jarring at first. Lylixx had been massive and built like a tank. The priestesses are just as tall with the same sandpaper texture to their skin, but much skinnier, willowy and more graceful by comparison. They are already accepting of the paladins to begin with, offering refreshment and a place to rest if needed. But they seem to grow even more interested when Shiro tells them he has a _Ser’sazin_ prayer to deliver.   
  
“It is unusual for the _Ser’sazin_ to be delivered by an outsider,” the head priestess says. “How do you come by a follower’s final prayer?”  
  
“He gave it to me,” Shiro says truthfully enough. “He said he didn’t have anyone else to do it. No spouse or siblings. His parents died before him. We were prisoners, and the Galra don’t observe or respect things like this. So he asked me if I could deliver it. I wasn’t sure if I would escape, but I agreed to try. I’m just sorry it took so long to remember it…”  
  
The head priestess smiles. “His soul sounds very faithful,” she says. “You honor it and our gods by bringing it home to us. Come—we will take you to the chamber of resting, and you may recite his _Ser’sazin_ to us. For this honor, I will attend the soul personally.”   
  
He leaves the others behind in the comfortable, bright atrium. Keith stands and seems ready to follow for support, but Shiro waves him off. He’d like the others there, but it sounds like this is a thing that needs to be done in private, and he wants to respect the religion as much as he can even if he doesn’t believe it himself. He owes Lylixx that much. Keith nods, and settles down on one of the long benches again. Then Shiro turns a corner, and they’re out of sight.   
  
The room they take him to is beautiful. It looks pretty enough, with ornate carvings of religious icons and a finely crafted altar at the head of the room, but what’s really impressive are the acoustics. It’s a room meant to enhance the musical quality of the _Ser’sazin_ prayers, Shiro can tell immediately. He can see how one might believe that sanctified here, the prayer might reach the heavens. It feels like something powerful could be watching here, and those prayers would be strong enough to reach them in this room.  
  
“I am prepared,” the high priestess says, after leading Shiro towards the altar. “Give me the devoted’s name, and recite his _Ser’sazin_ to me.”   
  
Shiro does. He’s stunned to find that despite having forgotten it for well over a year, now, the words instantly come back to him. They’d been blocked from his mind completely, but once he remembers they exist at all, he remembers each word with such intensity and focus it’s almost frightening. He still isn’t entirely clear what they mean, but he remembers every inflection, every pronunciation, with absolute accuracy.   
  
It takes almost ten doboshes to finish. Shiro’s mouth is dry when he does, and one of the attending priestesses hands him a cup of water. He takes it gratefully and watches. The high priestess has her eyes closed, murmuring as she inscribes things on the altar with her fingers, or lights candles and incenses. She repeats Lylixx’s _Ser’sazin_ word for word, and Shiro is impressed that she remembers it first try. At the very end, her fingers collect together the clouds of hovering incense smoke, and shape it into a swirling ball. For a moment it seems to glitter, and then she brushes her fingers through it, scattering the smoke to the air and dispersing it into nothing.  
  
“It is finished,” the high priestess says. “Lylixx’s _Ser’sazin_ has been heard by the gods. His soul has ascended. Thank you, outsider. You have acted honorably. The gods of Mephylstryxen acknowledge you as an honored soul. You will always be welcome here.”   
  
“Um…thanks,” Shiro says, unsure how to respond. The priestesses don’t seem terribly shaken over the death of one of their people, and after the last two messages it’s a bit odd—he’s not really sure how he’s supposed to act. But he can see that they _are_ grateful, in a different way than the grief-stricken family members of the other two slaves, and they really do mean what they say.   
  
More importantly, he feels…lighter, again. The weight of that prayer no longer rests on his heart; he doesn’t have that uncanny feeling that he’s being tailed by something watching and desperately waiting. It took longer than anticipated, but his promise to Lylixx has been met, and he can breathe a little easier knowing that.   
  
He meets the others back in the atrium. They’re comfortably settled around in benches and enjoying a few snacks and drinks provided by the priestesses, and Lance appears to be trying (unsuccessfully) to chat a few of them up. When Shiro enters though, they all grow solemn, and halt whatever it is they’re doing to watch.  
  
“All set, Shiro?” Keith asks. _Are you okay?_ is the question underneath, and it’s mirrored in the others’ eyes.   
  
“Yeah,” Shiro answers. “It’s done. His words made it home.”   
  
“Feel lighter?” Hunk asks, offering a tentative smile.  
  
Shiro considers. “Yes,” he finally answers. Hunk’s smile grows wider. The others look happy as well, even despite the solemnity of the mission.   
  
“Let’s go home,” Shiro adds. He’s happy the mission is over, and this one hadn’t been as painful as the others, but it’s done now. He’s done his duty. And now he wants to leave it behind him, closed and completed.   
  
The others nod, and surround him supportively, heading back for the Blue Lion.


	4. A treasure trove of memory

It becomes more commonplace after that.   
  
By now, Shiro is no stranger to his memories suddenly returning. Sometimes they come in fits and starts, or when he dreams, but slowly but surely bits and pieces of the hole in his head are being filled in again. Sometimes it’s relevant to the mission—enemies of the Galra they might find as allies, memories of patrol routes, things he’d observed as a slave that would assist them now.   
  
But increasingly more often, it’s also memories of another prisoner’s last words.   
  
It’s something big that happened in his time as a prisoner, Shiro comes to realize. That one little act of aiding Turis until he’d passed had started _something_ , and he gradually starts to understand the full extent of it the more memories he regains. While the prisoners had once watched him with dull-eyed disbelief, and regarded him as though he were crazy, Shiro gradually starts to see a change in them in his memories.   
  
More and more, his fellow slaves come to him for assistance, offering their trust in exchange for a favor. They gamble on giving him their last words and final memories, in a hope that one day those words might reach home, even if they never do again. Shiro is stunned as he begins to uncover just how many words are locked away in his head, just waiting for the moment when they break free again. And he has a feeling there are dozens more locked away that he hasn’t been able to shine a light on yet.  
  
He’s a crown prince of last words, sitting on a veritable wealth of final memories, and only he can truly appreciate their worth. But that wealth doesn’t belong to him. It was only given for a short while. And one day he’ll return it all.  
  
Somehow, the gamble of those prisoners had been a success. Shiro had escaped, and he still had that treasure trove of memories with him. It takes him a while to recover them, but when he does he’s adamant about seeing his promises through to the end, no matter what.   
  
Each memory hurts, in its own way. All of them are bitter and painful, and he watches dozens of innocent people die, all victims of the Galra’s merciless expansion. Those final words, those last requests, they hound him relentlessly until he’s completed them, heavy on his heart and whispering continually in his head.   
  
But at the same time, each memory delivered to the ones they truly belong to brings him a sense of peace. It’s bittersweet, and the reactions of those people always hurt. Some of them respond with grief, and others with anger or denial, lashing out at the bearer of bad news that comes to them. It’s difficult work, and leaves him exhausted by the end, but he feels lighter for the work all the same. Maybe it’s not as grand as defeating Zarkon or Lotor, or freeing an entire planet. But it feels just as important to him.   
  
His friends are fully supportive through all of it, and for that he’s grateful. They have an uncanny sense for knowing when his latest regained memory has something to do with another set of last words, and they’re always ready to do the grunt work to get those words delivered. By now they’ve developed strategies for finding the people those words really belong to, and fall into them with no prompting needed. Coran has become quite good at the research aspect, and discerning where they even need to go. Allura is skilled at navigating them there, and is always willing to work with the local authorities to find news. Pidge becomes adept at hunting through digital census files and stored data to find news of the people they’re hunting for. Hunk and Lance have a knack for hitting the streets and asking just the right questions to get on the trail of the people they need. Keith’s always a strong but silent support for Shiro when the memories are particularly dark. And all of them always stay with him after, when he doesn’t want to be alone with his thoughts but doesn’t feel like discussing it either, providing silent but genuine support.  
  
The task might have initially fallen to Shiro, but he’s not sure he could complete those last requests without all of their help. But with them, he delivers those final memories, slow but sure, and the weight of those words on his heart gradually grows lighter.  
  
A wounded prisoner begs Shiro to deliver information on the location of a missing patent she’d designed to her wife, so that her spouse can at least live in comfort on the earnings.   
  
Another’s spouse died before they were taken, and they want a special kind of flower placed at their significant other’s grave, so they can be with their mate at the end.   
  
A third rambles in feverish delirium about his homeland until his words run down and finally stop. But Shiro remembers every name spoken, and vows to track them all down.   
  
A fourth wants its nestmates to know it has perished, that they might assimilate its heirlooms and ensure everything is distributed properly amongst family per tradition.  
  
A fifth begs for an old family friend to be notified of her death, so that someone can provide for her mother. She’d left to earn enough to care for her ailing parent, and had been captured on the way back.   
  
A sixth has no one to perform funeral rites for them, and pleads for Shiro to do it instead, describing the intricate ceremony on their last gasping breaths.   
  
On and on, each last request painful and heartfelt, desperate and terrified, but also containing their last glimmers of hope. They’re always aware they are dying, or will soon, no matter the scenario—no matter if Shiro comes to them in the cell as they lay injured or sick, or if they come to Shiro with a request like Lylixx’s. But part of them believes that he really can protect their last words, and carry them out of this place back to their families and friends and homelands, and it gives them at least a little hope that their loved ones won’t be completely abandoned.   
  
And once he remembers them, Shiro does everything in his power to ensure they aren’t.   
  
He’s not entirely sure _how_ he remembers everything. Just like the _Ser’sazin_ prayer, once the memories return in a sudden burst, each final word is crystal clear and sharply in focus. He never stumbles over a single one, or forgets what anyone wanted him to say or do, once he remembers encountering them at all. He’s not sure why that is, but he’s not complaining. It means the words are heavier on his heart when they’re still with him alone, undelivered, but it’s so much more of a relief when he can offer as much detail as possible to their grieving loved ones later. And that makes the weight and clarity worthwhile, for a time.  
  
He remembers other things alongside those memories too, memories connected with those last words and, gradually, becoming more interconnected with his own survival. He remembers more gladiator fights, and refusing to lose the battles in part because of so many of the memories he bears. If he dies, all of those last words die with him, and he _won’t_ let them be lost. He remembers the other prisoners gradually regarding him with wary awe, still frightened of his combat prowess but more respectful in the prison cells. They bring him messages, sometimes, of people close to death who want their words carried on. He’s not sure when he gains this role as a holder of memory to them, but what’s one more memory? What does it hurt, to comfort one more alien dying in this hellhole, staying with them until they finally pass? He accepts them all.   
  
And he remembers one memory with a particular twist, in the dead of night. This one is striking to him because it’s _different_ than the others; it’s the bridge between his combat life and his life as a memory keeper for the slaves. It’s more than just a memory of someone’s last words—because it isn’t that at all, and yet at the same time, it’s almost _his._   
  
It starts in his dreams. They’re bland rehashes of the day and _he collapses to the hard metal floor of the communal prison, gasping in pain when he strikes his right arm hard against the flooring. It’s all he can do to keep from screaming, but he won’t give the guards the satisfaction._   
  
_But it’s difficult. It’s so difficult, when his right arm is so_ heavy, _and not even his anymore. The metal of the newly attached prosthetic feels like a thousand pounds to his exhausted body, and he can barely manage to twitch his fingers or his wrist, they feel so far away and disconnected from him. The remains of his real arm throb in agony, where the metal is grafted to muscle and bolted to bone. Already his skin is swollen and inflamed where metal meets flesh, and it hurts to move it._  
  
 _The rest of him feels achy and exhausted, too, and he can barely bring himself to move. But he forces himself to anyway. The guards are still watching. Probably the med techs too. He can’t let them win. He has to prove them wrong. With excruciating effort, he pulls himself to his hand and knees. The metal prosthetic hangs like a dead thing, useless and dragging, no matter how much he struggles to twitch his fingers. He can’t manage to get fully to his feet, but crawling is still spitting in the Galra’s eyes. He manages to haul himself over to his preferred corner._  
  
 _He passes out shortly after that, flopped on his left side to keep the pressure off of his right arm, spots dancing in front of his eyes, and every breath an agonizing experience._  
  
 _His dreams are awful, twisted things, the discomforting ones he always gets when he’s feverish and sickly. They’re not quite nightmares, but they are enough to keep him from getting any real rest. He flutters in and out of awareness, barely able to concentrate on his surroundings._  
  
 _He knows this is foolish. His title is a coveted thing by some, and he knows he’s relatively defenseless at the moment. It’s an ideal time for someone to attack, and he needs to stay aware, stay ready. But he’s so tired. He’s in so much pain. He can’t do it._  
  
 _He feels hot inside, and the pain in his arm grows worse. His awareness grows even more hazy, and his vision is blurred. Once, he’s pretty sure there’s a med tech crouched in front of him, impassively taking notes on a datapad and poking and prodding his arm until it hurts worse than ever. Shiro doesn’t even have the strength to bat him away._  
  
 _That’s not a good sign, he knows._  
  
 _He’s not sure how much time passes, but he’s distantly aware he hasn’t drank anything in a while, and that’s probably not good. He knows he’s sick, possibly badly. He’s seen it before. He’s stayed with others until they died because of it._  
  
 _He thinks of Serrata, and shivers. Maybe it’s his turn. What an awful way to go._  
  
 _His mind drifts. He doesn’t move from his corner. He breathes harshly in shallow pants, and tries to curl up in a way that doesn’t put pressure on his wounded arm. The metal palm is curled near his face, but he’s never had anything feel so far away before in his life._  
  
 _“—een almost a quintent. He hasn’t spoken.”_  
  
 _“He didn’t get his rations either….”_  
  
 _“This always happens. They attach those things and leave us to die. What’s the point?”_  
  
 _“They’re sick bastards, that’s the point. They just do it for kicks!”_  
  
 _“He could have survived the rings if they’d just left him alone. He might have gotten away. He used to be so strong, but look at him now…”_  
  
 _“If he dies, what happens to everyone’s last requests?”_  
  
 _“If he lives through this…if he lives through this, he’ll be even stronger. Have you seen the augmented fighters? Maybe we’ll have a chance. Maybe some of us will get back. Even if we die.”_  
  
 _“Don’t talk like that. You might live.”_  
  
 _“Don’t be stupid. I’ll die for sure. I’m no fighter. That’s why I gave him my last requests. If he dies too…”_  
  
 _“We must help Champion. He must live. If he dies, what becomes of the words?”_  
  
 _Shiro starts when he feels a pair of hands on his face, and struggles to open his eyes. He stares into the face of a massive mantis-thing straight out of his nightmares, and jerks back towards the wall with a rasping yell._  
  
 _“Be at ease, Champion,” the bug-thing says, in a rasping, clicking voice. “We are tasked with aiding you. Others will assist as well. We mean you no harm.”_  
  
 _He’s not sure if he believes it, but he doesn’t have the strength to fight anyway. The metal prosthetic is heavy on his arm. He can sort of twitch the fingers now, but it hurts too much to move the full arm. He feels too hot, too weak. He remembers this from before. With Serrata. With others._  
  
 _He’s dying. He knows it._  
  
 _Oh God. He’s going to die. He doesn’t want to die like this. Now that it’s here, he doesn’t want to die forgotten in the corner of some cesspit gladiator hell hole, with no one back home ever knowing what happened. But maybe…maybe someone can take_ his _words. He’d tried for the others. Maybe…maybe someone can return the favor._  
  
 _“If…If I don’t…” he tries, after a moment. Words are hard; his tongue isn’t coordinated enough for them. “My…parents…Keith…on Earth…it’s—“_  
  
 _“No.” The mantis-like prisoner covers his mouth with a long-fingered, spiny hand, but it’s gentle. “We will not permit this talk from Champion. You cannot grant the last words to another. You have far too many. We cannot permit your mind or body to die. You must live.”_  
  
 _Shiro feels angry, but he doesn’t have enough strength to hold it for long. Then he just feels tired, and resigned. He can’t survive this. He’s watched too many die. Everyone back home will never know what happened._  
  
 _“Can’t,” he answers dully._  
  
 _“You will,” the insect prisoner insists. “We shall aid you, and so shall the others.”_  
  
 _Shiro’s too tired to argue. But then, to his surprise, the insect prisoner lifts him carefully with several pairs of arms, and adjusts him in a way that takes most of the pressure off of his arm. It feels marginally better, even if the sensation of being cradled against spiny legs and carapace beneath the prison uniform makes his skin crawl a little._  
  
 _“Champion is very warm,” the insect prisoner reports._  
  
 _“Earthlings are mammals,” someone else says. “I think. He might be feverish. And he needs water.”_  
  
 _“I have some of my ration left over. Take it.”_  
  
 _“Mine too. I don’t fight for three quintents.”_  
  
 _“Mine as well.”_  
  
 _Shiro feels dizzy and disconnected again, but shivers a little when a cool wet cloth—someone’s prison shirt, from the texture—is pressed against his forehead, neck and throat. He doesn’t like his throat so exposed and vulnerable or to have anyone touching it…but the coolness feels good. Someone else tilts his head and presses the rim of a ration water bottle to his lips, and he drinks greedily, suddenly aware of how thirsty he is._  
  
 _“What of the injury?”_  
  
 _“They won’t give us medicines. The med techs won’t care.”_  
  
 _“Maybe we can clean and bandage it at least…the others get worse when the pus and the smell comes…”_  
  
 _Shiro’s distantly aware of movement around him, and then someone touches at his injured arm. He hisses and tries to pull away—the prosthetic jerks awkwardly, uncoordinated and stiff as it tries and fails to respond to his thoughts. The insect’s many-jointed limbs tighten around Shiro a moment later, pinning him still except for his arm. That frightens him—to be pinned like this is certainly to die—and he struggles with everything he has left. But the rasping, clicking voice hisses, “Be still, Champion, they are assisting.”_  
  
 _He doesn’t know about assisting. He just knows it_ hurts. _There’s something brushing at the point where his arm meets metal, more prison shirt cloth, and it’s rough and uncomfortable. Then trickling coolness on the hot, inflamed skin that feels marginally better, at least, and then something dry and rough tightens around it and binds it still. Shiro hisses, but his vision is too blurry to make out most of the details, and the giant mantis-thing holds him still with its many arms._  
  
 _But at last it stops, and the mantis prisoner’s tight hold on him relaxes. “He will need to feed, eventually,” the prisoner says. “We must be sure to save our rations to give him strength. Water, too, if we can. We must monitor the injury. And we must let him rest.”_  
  
 _“The techs will drag him off to a fight if he’s due.”_  
  
 _“He won’t be for at least a spicolian movement. They always wait that long to see if their new test subjects even live.”_  
  
 _“They’ll still be in here to observe, though…we can’t stop them! They’re too strong! They’ll take us if we protest—that one tech’s hated Champion ever since he spoke up for Wildstrike, you know he’ll do the same for us!”_  
  
 _“We’ll just have to hope they mostly leave him be, and stay near him if he needs us…”_  
  
 _Shiro fades out after that._  
  
 _He’s in and out for a while. Sometimes he’s unconscious. Other times he drifts to the surface when hands adjust him to make him more comfortable, or lift him to give him water or crushed, watered-down ration bars for food, or to tend to his injury as best as possible. His vision is hazy, and sometimes it’s the mantis prisoner, or sometimes it’s one of the others. He’s still not entirely sure they’re safe, but he trusts them because there’s nothing else he can do, and their touch doesn’t startle him after a while._  
  
 _Once, he feels hands on him and opens his eyes not to the prisoners, but to the med techs. He hisses under his breath and tries to pull away from the careless prodding. But the tech crouching in front of him barks for him to stop and holds him still, wrenching his shoulder painfully until Shiro can’t move. Even sick, Shiro recognizes this tech as the same one that threatened him when he tried to help Serrata, and the malicious glare in the tech’s eyes is unmistakable. He causes pain on purpose as he examines the status of Shiro’s prosthetic._  
  
 _This time, he has a partner—another tech who stands behind him, and dutifully writes down the first’s observations on a holopad. He’s newer, but Shiro has seen him once or twice—he recognizes the odd white markings on this tech’s skull. And maybe Shiro’s out of it because he feels so awful, but he swears the tech is watching the other prisoners huddling closer than usual with detached interest._  
  
 _“The change in alloy appears to be working,” the first tech says with a grumble, digging his fingers into Shiro’s arm. Shiro bites his tongue to keep from screaming. He won’t give the bastard the satisfaction. Not even when he’s dying. “The infection is not as severe.”_  
  
 _“Perhaps it’s merely an enduring species,” the second offers._  
  
 _“We need more tests on varying subjects for better study,” the first says. “We’ll see if this one is merely lucky.”_  
  
 _“Then he’ll live?”_  
  
 _“He’s not dead yet, which is more than the others can say,” the tech says, as he finally pushes away from Shiro. “The druids will be pleased, at least.”_  
  
 _“So will the arena managers,” the second says. He glances idly around the huddled prisoners. “Champion is the best of this lot. He puts on too good a show for them.”_  
  
 _The first tech snorts. “As if I care about that garbage. As long as there’s a steady supply of test subjects I don’t care what they do otherwise. Come, we need to report the results to the druids.”_  
  
 _The other dutifully follows. As soon as they’re even remotely clear of Shiro, several prisoners scramble a little closer to him again. Shiro doesn’t miss how the second tech catches this before he steps out the door, but he’s too tired to dwell on what that means. His exhausted mind drifts again, and he barely feels the hands of the prisoners as they carefully readjust him and examine his injury once more._  
  
 _That night is probably the worst—his arm throbs worse than ever from the feeling of the tech’s claws in his skin, and he burns inside. But there’s a constant coolness on his skin, and trickles of water to drink when his throat is dry, and eventually the agony starts to subside. He slips into a real rest at some point, farther down where the disturbing fever-dreams can’t reach, and the pain of his injuries can’t follow._  
  
 _When he wakes the next morning he feels kitten weak, and sore everywhere. His arm still hurts like hell, and he’s hot and uncomfortable. But he doesn’t feel like he’s at death’s door anymore. If he concentrates, he can flex his metal fingers, open and close his fist. He’s able to gather a tiny bit of strength to sit himself up for a time, wedged into the corner, metal arm dragging in his lap._  
  
 _“You live,” someone says. “We are pleased to see this.” Shiro blinks when the mantis-prisoner crouches in front of him, an awkward and yet simultaneously fascinating thing to watch when it somehow manages to curl its long, spindly legs beneath it._  
  
 _“You.” Shiro recognizes the face from his feverish, blurry sight. “You helped me.”_  
  
 _“And the others,” the insect prisoner says, waving one long foreleg behind it. Several other prisoners stare over the massive bug’s shoulder, silent and watching. “They offered their rations. Bound your injuries. We kept vigil before and after the techs came.”_  
  
 _“Thank you,” Shiro says, first to the insect, and then the others. “All of you. There was no reason for you to do that.”_  
  
 _“You have the words,” the insect says, as if this was obvious. “A mind of memory cannot be lost so easily. This is not an acceptable thing. Among our kind, a prince keeps the minds of all in life and after death—to strike down a prince is a grievous offense, and to lose them to death unexpectedly is a terrible tragedy for everyone.”_  
  
 _Shiro frowns at this. He’s feeling marginally better, but still too tired to really follow. “This is because of all those last requests…?”_  
  
 _“We all go to death eventually, Champion,” the mantis prisoner says, matter of fact. “Memories must be kept. Your death is not here. It is elsewhere. You must therefore take them with you. That is rightful.”_  
  
 _Shiro thinks this is almost some sort of cultural thing, and is almost about to tell him humans don’t have some sort of hive mind or whatever it is—but he can see the other prisoners nodding behind the insect slave, looking shy but not disagreeing._  
  
 _They really don’t think they’ll make it out of here. But they fully believe Shiro can, somehow, and that he can carry a piece of them with him._  
  
 _Shiro swallows. God, he feels so tired, and still so much like crap. “I don’t know if I can really do that,” he says quietly, “but thanks for the help anyway.”_  
  
 _Many of them nod. Others just stare, and still others can’t even bring themselves to do that. The atmosphere is downtrodden, and it’s clear most of them believe their fates inevitable. But Shiro swears he sees the tiniest glimmers of what he could almost believes could be hope in their eyes. They know they’re going to die—but there’s hope that, just maybe, they won’t die forgotten._  
  
 _Shiro swallows again. Stares down at the metal hand sprawled like a dead thing in his lap. Concentrates hard, and clenches it into a fist, tight and painful but victorious all the same. He won’t let this thing beat him. He won’t let the arena managers or the druids or Haggar or Zarkon beat him. He’s going to survive every last fight. He’s going to_ live. _And he’s going to carry those words out of here when he escapes._  
  
 _Over the next few days, he gets better. He’s gradually able to move and handle the prosthetic more fluidly, like a real arm. It never stops hurting, but at least it hurts less._  
  
 _Over the next few weeks he gets stronger, strong enough to survive his first bout with his new arm, and his new weapon. He rises to the next rank in the arenas with his victory, and they move him to an isolated cell, no longer with the rest of the prisoners. A reward for being so highly ranked, they say. Shiro doesn’t buy it. He doesn’t forget the way that med tech had watched the prisoners assist him. The Galra don’t want their prisoners hopeful._  
  
 _Over the next few months, most of the prisoners that helped save his life die, to the arena battles or to the conditions of the prison._  
  
 _Shiro can’t be there to ease their passing, but in the end it doesn’t matter. They’d given him their last requests long before, and other clever slaves find ways to pass the rest of the messages to him. Those prisoners had been brave and resourceful enough to try and help him in his hour of need._  
  
 _He’ll make sure they aren’t forgotten._   
  
He wakes, but not with a gasp. It takes him a few moments to even realize his eyes are open. It takes him even longer to realize he’d been crying in his sleep.   
  
Those people had helped him survive, and they’d died for it. It hadn’t been quite as brazen as Ulaz’ rescue, or had quite so dynamic a result. But he’d survived when nobody else had. When he _shouldn’t_ have. They’d freed him in a different way. And it had let him escape, to save his people and form Voltron. It had been a dangerous sacrifice they’d made, but it had come through in the end.   
  
He remembers each of their stories now. Each of their last words. He won’t let them be forgotten. First thing in the morning, he’ll tell the others what those people had done for him. He and the team will start tracking down their loved ones and delivering those final memories, those last glimmers of hope.  
  
 _Hope_ …and that, too, suddenly makes sense. His memory hadn’t recognized the second med tech, but in the present he knows Ulaz all too well. Suddenly he understands the meaning of Ulaz’ cryptic words during his rescue. _As a fighter and a leader, you give hope._ He hadn’t been talking about the fighting arenas at all. He’d been talking about the slaves he’d witnessed, rallying to Shiro’s cause when they had nothing else. Something that months before they’d never dared to try, as beaten down and resigned to the end as they were.   
  
Maybe…maybe there’s a bigger piece to all of this. Maybe it’s about even more than those individual messages, those last bits of closure to the families and friends of lost ones taken by the Galra Empire. Maybe it’s about more than what he’s promised each of those individuals, although that’s important too. Maybe this is also about a change happening in the heart of the Galra hell, about even the tiniest little cracks forming just underneath the surface that the Galra can’t see. Maybe it’s about proving that hopelessness and resignation only exists where you let it—about showing it’s important to fight in any way you can, in _every_ way you can, to resist in even the tiniest ways. Maybe it’s about proving a difference can be made.  
  
Or maybe it isn’t. Maybe that only exists for Shiro. Maybe he’s reading too much into everything; maybe he’s too heavily effected by this. It’s too emotional, too deep, too much a part of him now for him to ever really divorce himself from it. Those words will always be carved in his heart, and those memories will always be in his mind, now. He won’t ever be able to forget them.  
  
But despite how painful many of them can be, he doesn’t really want to.   
  
And regardless of the reason, big or small, Shiro does know one thing. That near-endless treasure trove of memory is still a wealth that’s not really his. They’re not his words to keep, and the hope they bring isn’t for him to keep locked away inside. Tomorrow he’ll work with the others to bring these next sets of last requests home to those they belong with. And he’s sure there’s still more inside his head that haven’t been freed yet, more memories that will work themselves free of more slaves killed before their time, and still daring to reach out to him for help anyway.   
  
And he’ll deliver them. He’ll bring all of them home, every last one, until the wealth of memories are finally spent and the weight of them all is lifted, until the words carved in his heart are silent and serene once more. He’ll bring every single one home, give away every last glimmering shard of hope in that treasure trove, and maybe by the time he does, the war will finally be over.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> And that's a wrap! I've had this idea on the brain for a few months now...it's been quite a delight to share it with you all. Thanks for reading, and for any kudos, comments, favorites or shares you send my way! You're all the best :)


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